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Chapter One
A staccato "Pop! Pop! Pop-pop! Pop!" cut short Everett Crume's consideration of the eviction notice. He lunged into the forty-watt gloom of VJ's cramped apartment. Blinking and off balance, he then stumbled over a metal folding chair and nearly fell. Ev's two hundred and thirty-five pounds were crammed into cut-rate jeans that restricted movement and added an element of danger to the business of walking. Bringing all his strength to bear, he was able to keep his feet if not his composure.
Upright but shaken, Ev lacked the confidence to proceed. For several moments he stood just inside the door panting and cursing. He made a point to specifically mention the manufacturers of the metal chair and the man who'd placed it so carelessly in his path. Staring into the murky half-light, sunlight streaming around him, he smelled an odor, fish and Pinesol, an astringent, bracing stink. Now he understood. VJ's swamp cooler was on the blink and five-ounce Jojobalueca Liniment bottles were exploding in the undiluted fervor of the midday heat.
Hot, short of breath, and still shaky on his feet, young Crume endured the stink and thought of his great-uncle. "You can't count on a guy who's scrawny," the old gentleman had said. The remembered words impressed Everett as profound, prophetic. Ev had been a chunky, responsible child and had developed into a portly, reliable young man. Scrawniness and irresponsibility were attributes the Crumes managed to avoid.
This was not the case for Virgil Jose ("VJ" or "Virg") Eckleberry. Ev regarded his friend with a deflating sigh ofresignation. Likable as he was, VJ Eckleberry was one of the thinnest and most unreliable human beings ever to have cared for sheep on the ranchlands of Nevada or peddled Jojobalueca products on the sun-roasted streets of Albuquerque. Now, according to the notice VJ's landlord had evidently nailed to the door, Ev's friend had just under thirty days to "vacate the premises." Ev was far from surprised. The timing, in fact, was perfect. They were leaving that very day for a visit to the Eckleberry family ranch in Nevada. Maybe VJ would make peace with his father and stay.
VJ, the subject of these ruminations, sat at the foot of an unmade sofa bed. Gaunt arms angled out of a purple-flowered cowboy shirt. Pink longjohn bottoms betrayed the easy lifestyle of a man who washes clothes democratically, in a single load. His face was unshaven. His long black hair was going in all directions in an apparent attempt to escape from his head. He began twirling an unruly handful into a rough bun on the right side. He showed no signs of having noticed his friend, the liniment explosions, or the brash, exuberant stink that pervaded the apartment. In Ev's experience, the absentminded hair twirling was a sure sign of trouble. Instantly wary, he noted with horror that VJ was reading. This was going to be bad. Ev's head began to ache.
It was twelve noon. Outside, the high sun tracked the endless pavement and sent heat shimmers into the air, distorting vision and causing headaches. VJ had avoided headaches and the many other risks of venturing outside his apartment. His attention was fixed on a dog-eared copy of Stockman's Universe, with feature stories titled "Spotscald in Feedlots" and "The Environmentalist Threat to Our Traditions."
Anyone familiar with Virg Eckleberry would expect him to show right-thinking, if passing, concern for the ravages of spotscald in feedlots. Still, Ev did not imagine that his friend would give much attention to the topic. VJ simply would not find articles on spotscald particularly gripping. Similarly, as far as Ev knew, VJ Eckleberry had not reflected deeply on environmentalists or "our traditions." He hadn't, in fact, reflected deeply on much of anything. His metabolic level seldom allowed it. In a Wyoming bar someone had called VJ an environmentalist and there had been trouble. Still, Ev did not think that VJ was likely to be reading up on the subject. In Ev's experience VJ had confined his reading to concrete, practical documents such as the daily racing form and inspirational pieces on Jojobalueca marketing. Ev was puzzled. What about this particular issue of Stockman's Universe could exert such force on the ever-wandering mind of VJ Eckleberry?
Several minutes passed and VJ didn't move. He didn't so much as nod to acknowledge Ev's presence. Ev's eyes adjusted, and he again noted the undiminished virulence of the smell. He could understand why VJ's landlord and former business associate, the slight and indomitable Chingleput Gupta, had decided to evict his erstwhile supplier of Jojobalueca products. Even in a depressed market for apartment rentals, there is a point when a landlord must act to guard his investment.
VJ had conceived of his Albuquerque apartment as the "Southwest Regional Headquarters" for Jojobalueca Products. One such product was "Jojobalueca Miracle Performance Liniment for Horses and Show Bovines." This liniment was one of the less prominent products, but every one of the thirty "Opportunity Kits" that VJ kept in his closet had a five-ounce bottle. The bottles, Ev supposed, could not contain the miracle. Happily, the explosions that had ushered Ev into the apartment were benign except for the powerful stink they loosed into the world.
That smell! Neighbors, reporting the odor to both landlord and police, had characterized the smell as something like a limit of trout rotting in a bucket of Pinesol. Mr. Gupta had apparently lost his enthusiasm for both the product line and VJ Eckleberry. Ev empathized.
Smelling the fresh evidence of the liniment (VJ had made earnest, if not sustained, efforts to clean up the mess every few days), Ev nevertheless felt brave enough to continue into the depths of the apartment. He shut the door behind him and crossed the front room into the fetid "kitchenette" where VJ had stored some of the Opportunity Kits. He made himself a cup of instant coffee and stood in the kitchen doorway. Every few minutes, VJ would idly stroke the sensitive area behind the only ear of a large, grimy, and battle-scarred tomcat. Foreman regarded Ev with a purity of disdain that Ev found both amusing and incomprehensible. Thus meeting the minimal needs of the purring, snot-colored cat, VJ continued to stare with rapt, complete attention at the soiled magazine. Ev watched and sipped coffee. They were to be in Nevada by noon the next day. There was a birthday party for VJ's old man. Ev had hoped to drive in the cool of the day. Since the cool of the day was gone, he was content to pass the hot hours enveloped in a cloud of smelly liniment. He would sip coffee, bear up under the withering gaze of Foreman, and watch VJ read. It was a novel experience, if a bit slow.
At length, the time for reading evidently passed. The magazine fell from Virgil's hands. He lifted his gaze to the fly specks and cobwebs on the wall or a vision of paradise beyond.
"Ev," he said, correctly surmising that his friend had joined him, "your parents can get rid of that tacky trailer. You can sell that ratty pickup. You can get some comfy, decent Five-oh-one Levis instead of those K-mart seconds that never fit. You can quit pinching every penny and buy a beer or two for someone else. I'll see you in a beaver hat, a silver quadruple-X with a hatband and everything. I swear that wool felt thing looks like a cat sleeping on your head. Go ahead and shit-can it before Foreman gets romantic. You can also get old four-eyes Susie some contact lenses, or better yet, get a new girlfriend. That Susie may not be good-looking," he shot a sideways glance at Ev, "but she sure can be a bitch. Now that you're going to have a pot to piss in, you can get a woman with manners."
"Whoa," Ev finally said, cutting his friend short. He was used to VJ's insults, but usually his slim friend managed to spread them out a bit, throwing one here, then one there, over the course of the day. VJ smiled a big face-busting grin and lifted his shoulders sheepishly.
Ev liked VJ. His energies and enthusiasms were infectious, and he'd always been the perfect antidote to Ev's unhappy bias toward pessimism. Still, he could be exasperating at times, and this was one of those times. Experience told Ev that he should not squander his powers by challenging any of Eckleberry's outrageous statements. He ought to keep his mouth shut.
The room was close and uncomfortably warm. Young Crume had narrowly missed a ruinous fall. His stamina was compromised.
"VJ," he raised his voice, "I've told you a dozen times. Susan is not my girlfriend. Get it through your head. She's got a boyfriend, some guy with earrings in his eyebrows." Ev closed his eyes and rubbed his head.
VJ was not slowed, just deflected, by the interruption. He leapt to his feet and began to pace. The cat followed suit, trotting in and out between VJ's legs and purring.
"I guess you saw the paperwork on the door," he said. "Old Chingleput's evicting me. I have thirty days. It's a shame. He had potential. He was already my best salesman." The limited dimensions of the room did not leave young Eckleberry much latitude. Three steps turn, three steps turn: that's all there was, and he made the best of it. Twisting at his hair, he began whistling "Volare" with as much volume as he could muster.
Ev stood in the kitchen door, sipped coffee, and watched. Things had picked up. He smiled. Mr. Gupta had been the only person VJ had convinced to sell Jojobalueca products. Recalling VJ and Chingleput as partners and their plans to "change the rules" in the South Asian household product market, Ev's smile broadened.
VJ continued to pace and whistle. It was entertaining for a couple of minutes but soon began to get on Ev's nerves. He was surprised that he was not genuinely angry about the insults.
While Virg paced up and down, he gazed at his old friend through brown eyes that glowed with warmth and fellow feeling. Ev shook his head. The last volley of insults had a rare and unexpected purity about them. Certainly, the outburst was appalling. Ev hoped his pal would henceforth find the forbearance to keep them to himself, but they were not malicious. Virg was simply excited, overexcited, and Ev still didn't know why.
"Virg!" Ev broke the silence sharply, hoping to end the ridiculous pacing. "What's put you into this state? Stop the damned workout and settle down. We ought to be to Monticello by now. What the hell's going on?"
The lanky man stopped the march. He lifted his eyes as though to heaven and took a deep breath. He continued to whisper the words of "Volare" under his voice.
Let's fly 'way up to the clouds
Away from maddening crowds.
Finally, VJ met Ev's gaze. Why! he thought, old Ev hasn't heard the plan! No wonder he looks so crabby.
VJ was a man of compassion. He decided at once to end this disturbing ignorance. Fixing his friend with eyes that simply radiated brotherly love, he smiled in a fond way and said, "Ostriches."
Ev had to admit that his friend had found the word for the occasion. Ostriches have a reputation for avian single-mindedness of the type VJ had shown in his attention to Stockman's Universe; they bury their heads. Likewise, following their own inscrutable impulses, they will suddenly run to the far horizons, an embodiment of speed without reflection. VJ had taken a similar approach to his own twenty-two-year span on the planet. Beyond that, Ev noted that his friend's eyes were glazed in that look of vacant absorption one so often finds in poultry. "Ostriches," indeed. No word could better characterize the appearance and behavior Ev had witnessed. Impressed, but far from satisfied, Ev urged his friend to flesh out his description.
"What do you mean, `ostriches'?"
"We're going to be rich," VJ explained. "But let's get the flock out of here." He stepped to the door. "Go on, Foreman, there's a good kitty." The cat had apparently lived in the midst of Central Avenue traffic since the days of the Old Testament. Young Eckleberry, as everyone knew, was a marvel with animals. According to landlord Gupta, VJ was the only human being ever to have touched the cat without sustaining injury. VJ had both fondness and admiration for the cat he'd christened "George Foreman." The cat stalked out, not failing to bare his teeth and hiss as he walked past Ev.
VJ shut the door and fixed Ev with a knowing gaze. "Chop-chop, Ev. We'll have to scrape the sisters off the ceiling if we miss the old man's party. You know who they'll blame. I'll tell you about it while we drive."
Ev agreed, Rosa and the others would blame him. He got a sick, hopeless feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd been sweet on Rosa Eckleberry as long as he could remember. It was his secret and it was hopeless. She was inaccessible, older by two years, a seeming chasm of time. Besides, all the guys were sweet on Rosa. She was beautiful, smart, and confident, and she was an Eckleberry. In addition to having the finest ranch in Basque County, Nevada, the Eckleberry family had something else. Call it confidence, charisma, or just a glow, it was a family trait. VJ had it, in spite of himself, and Rosa had it in spades. Ev admired her with fervent resignation. He didn't have a chance. Still, he did not want her mad at him, and that was a distinct possibility.
"Yeah," sighed Ev, fatigued and forlorn, "let's go, shake a leg. If we don't hurry, we'll miss driving in the heat of the day. I figure we've now got six full hours to spare. No need to waste it resting in cool comfort here."
VJ ignored the bitter tone of irony that Ev attempted to convey. Old Ev was often and inexplicably moody. VJ had to get ready to go! Chop-chop! He started packing: sniffing shirts, searching for mates to any of the socks strewn about, putting everything into a paper bag that held a new pair of jeans. VJ avoided doing laundry. He'd found he could put it off a while by buying new clothes.
"Don't worry." He stuck his head into the kitchen to see that the stove was off. "I want to stop and see Mama on the way."
"What!?!"
"I want to stop and see Mama on the way."
"In Phoenix!?!"
"That's right, that's where she lives, Evertly Ev."
VJ was out the door. Ev followed, his large frame bent with trouble.
VJ stood for a moment and admired his pickup before getting in. It was a brand-new, metallic-blue Ford one-ton, with dual rear tires.
"Hell of a truck," he said, "no damned king cab, either." VJ took great pride in the fact that the pickup did not have a king cab to spoil the lines.
"Hell is right," Ev replied bitterly, getting into the blisteringly hot, nonking cab. "It looks to me like a guy paying twenty-eight thousand dollars for a truck could get one with an air conditioner."
"A man might," VJ shot back, "if he wanted to junk up a nice truck with unnecessary trash and waste his daddy's good money."
It must have been a hundred and fifty degrees inside.
They took off into the Friday swell of traffic. A thousand or so dollars worth of stereo equipment blared "I Got Friends in Low Places" into their skulls. Ev snapped it off. "Yeah," he said, "it'd be a shame to junk up your nice pickup with unnecessary trash." It was so hot the knob burned poor Everett's sausagelike fingers. "And now you can explain to me how Phoenix is `on the way' to Basque County, Nevada. The town's evidently shifted a bit north."
"It only adds a couple of hundred miles," VJ answered, swerving in and out of traffic to sail cheerfully south, away from their destination. "I want to see that Mama knows about this from the get-go. We can triangulate to Nevada and get there just in time for the old man's party. If we hit the ranch too early, Rosa will have us cutting hay in the morning dews. Sudan hay, if I hear right."
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